The Forty Second
by Wulfe Luer
Summary: What would happen if you took some clone troopers, gave them a maniac exstormie commander, and cut them loose to fight for the NEW Republic? Read about the Forty Second and find out!
1. Chapter 1

The commandos sized each other up quietly as the _Lambda_-class shuttle _Workhorse_ hurtled through hyperspace. All of them had been called up from their respective units in a hurry; yanked off from important missions to be shipped off to the middle of who knows.

The group had been together a grand total of five hours--long enough to find out some important information. Each and every one of the assembled New Republic commandos was a former Imperial stormtrooper. Though some wore the standard khaki and green of the NR's military, there were a few still wearing their signature armor, though none were longer standard by any Imperial's definition; some were simply repainted, others had been visibly altered with non-standard parts, and even more had been ostentatiously repaired.

One of the 'repaints', a huge man with the ubiquitous military hair cut and an officer's square--bearing the one red dot of a Lieutenant--stood and stretched. "I don't mind being chased off from that bloody swamp, and not being told where I'm going, but Vader take whoever decided we shouldn't even meet the leader for this little trip." Grunts and nods of sardonic agreement moved throughout the passenger/cargo bay. A khaki-wearing soldier with corporal's tabs nodded with the rest. "He's here with the rest of us; why won't he at least show up and say "Wargh!" Semi-amused laughter followed 'Corp' Dyne's statement.

"WARRGH! Wake up, you lot!"

The unit all lept from their jump seats to attention. Corp and Lieutenant Flick both went pale; though they rarely encountered problems in the NRSF, the traditional cry/call of stormtrooper officers was both pride and joke among the Imperial ranks. They looked blankly forward with the rest; no point in apologizing now.

The butt of their complaint looked over their ranks with a cynical half-smile. Dressed in the familiar khakis, Major Leo Chere of the New Republic Special Forces Command gave the two 'troublemakers' a very strange look with his ice-blue eyes. He spoke, an amazingly high tenor--Chere was a big man. "I'm keeping my eye on you two bums. And for the record: I wasn't back here because the High and Mighty refused to let me away from the comm for more than two minutes. Oh, and at ease, you lot!"

The commandos relaxed, except for the now-sweating Flick. "Sir!" he barked forward. That one word was all the apology he was going to be allowed to say.

And it was accepted. Leo put his hand on his XO's shoulder, the half-smile back. "Relax. We'll sweat the formal stuff when we get where we're goin'."

The lieutenant followed the friendly order with a relieved sigh; among the stormtroopers, men had been killed for less than a simple complaint. He decided to press his luck: "Where are we going, sir?" The major's smile grew.

"You lot are going to love it. It's this planet in the back of beyond, a ways from the Rishii Maze at the Rim. "Lots of water, lots of history, and one tiny piece of techno-wizardry."

"It's called Kamino."

Major Chere looked over his mongrel lot of ex-"stormies." They had a great deal of the iron discipline and indoctrination still ingrained from their stints as the fanatical soldiers of the New Order. Amazingly, these fanatics had seen the light in one way or another, and now they were the very Rebel Scum they had sought to eradicate in the old days. Some had been abandoned on deep-cover assignments, still more had been somehow captured and given a chance to see how the scum did things for themselves.

Only one of the assembled--read scrambled--team had actually left for themselves; Flick. A candidate for the Royal Guard, he had been on the verge of going through the finishing school and steep--deadly--indoctrination when Endor happened. His faith shattered, the former Sergeant deserted and went mercenary, until a a run-in with Page's commandos had given him a new chance for a cause.

Leo had a great deal of sympathy--he had a past of his own. He had been just another tech when the Alliance had managed to wreck the first Death Star. The massive scramble among the Imperial Navy had somehow landed him in the white armor; bureaucracy was an amazing thing. The real surprise was that he was good at it. The fake stormtrooper managed to distinguish himself on quite a few battlefields before the mistake caught up with him. Leo was ignominiously yanked from his billet and tossed back into the quiet life of a comptech again...for a few weeks. Then his doom appeared; Tech-Second Class Leo Chere had received a surprise visit...from Lord Vader.

The Sith Lord stared at the frightened falsehood as he quivered in his uniform, doing his best to die with some honor. The deep, mechanical wheeze filled the tiny workroom. Then his voice came: "You are the one who saved our forces on Kerpon? The one that was called...the Randomizer?"

Leo did his best to reply; it took four tries. "Y-yes, my lord."

"If this is so, why did you simply accept your fate? Why did you let yourself be returned to a life of drudgery, when you are clearly capable of far more?"

The tech/stormie did something that he would later decide was the bravest--most insane--act he'd ever done. He looked the Sith Lord straight in the blank photoreceptor. "I believe that those who serve humbly serve honorably." He immediately looked away and waited to die; one did not confront Vader and live.

The dark Jedi stared again at the doomed Chere for a very long moment, then spoke again. "That was well said, Chere. You will report to Imperial Center for your new posting. The New Order needs more warriors as willing to serve...Captain."

The _Workhorse_ finally settled down with a mechanical sigh on the soaked, slick landing pad.

Leo patted the pilot's shoulder in a friendly way. "It was a long flight, but you space jockeys know your stuff. Thanks," the Major said.

The pilot nodded tiredly. "Thanks, Major. We try our best. Hope your hush-hush op goes alright."

They clasped hands briefly. Leo then let go, undoing his safety harness and rising from the jump seat. He had dressed in his familiar old stormtrooper armor _sans_ helmet; the white carapace bore the square and three pips of a New Republic Major where old Imperial rectangles had been removed. A single pauldron--the left, had been painted silver, which was now chipped and scratched.

He collected the helmet from a bin overhead the rear of the cockpit. He marched to the cargo/passenger bay, his boot ringing on the metal deck.

"WAAARRGH! It's time to wake up and smell the caf, you lot!" he boomed.

The assembled 'stormies' snapped out of their webbing and into attention. Everyone was now wearing traditional armor again, each with a freshly painted left pauldron--silver, identical to Chere's. Each was holding their helmet crooked under their left arm. Not all the gear was standard issue, however. Three of the troopers, including Corporal Dyne, were wearing the suits of scout troopers, while Lieutenant Flick was wearing the flowing gear of a snowtrooper, though the NR rank insignia had been retained.

The engines sighed to quiescence as Leo looked over his small command. "Alright, you lot, it's time to go meet your new buddies; it's our job to get them up to speed on current events and get 'em ready for kicking some serious butt."

"Move out!"

The fuglemen of the Forty-Second Legion (offically the 1st Battalion of the New Republic Experimental Corps) marched out of the bay through the rear, down onto the rain-soaked pad, and into their new assignment:

The former 42nd Legion of the Grand Army of the Republic. A legion of clones.


	2. Chapter 2

The Forty-Second was already in business.

Major (Brevet Colonel) Leo Chere and his new unit of troops had been training for a grand total of two weeks when their first call-up had been placed. Now they were on a new front, cleaning out some ambitious pirate types.

"Where in the Maw are those bloody ARCs!" Chere exploded. He pulled a new power clip for his antique carbine from his equally antique utility belt. He popped the grip open and slapped the clip home. "I kept hearing about how badass they were in the Wars, and now I send twenty—twenty!--in to grab the head-man, and they can't even signal back!"

He sighted along the carbine's scope and fired. Azure bolts flashed, taking a Devaronian full in the chest. The horned alien screamed and fell twitching, clutching at his charred torso. "If this is any example of what those ARCs are facing, I'm gonna personally drag 'em to Tatooine, personally park 'em in front of a Sarlacc, and _personally toss 'em in!_"

"Patience, sir! They haven't let anyone down yet," replied Commander Raines. He yanked a grenade from his scarlet and gold-stained armor. He held it, poised for a brief moment, then tossed it into the screaming mob of fringers. The two troopers ducked back a white-flared explosion rocked through the hall.

Rains had been a highest ranking normal clone trooper left from a previously unknown stasis vault in a secondary facility thought lost on Kamino. When Chere had gone through the 'unit's' rather chaotic roster, he immediately made the Jango Fett clone his executive officer. Now the clone and the ex-stormtrooper were leading a collection of troops through the pirates' planetary stronghold after a New Republic task force smashed their fleet. 'Collection' had been the best word to describe the unit; a few companies of normal clones, a double handful of ARCs, and Chere's complement of former stormtroopers. Their was also a group of New Rep commandos on-planet, along with a battalion of regulars, but it was the Forty-Second—by their own request—that had taken the task of cracking open the base by storm.

A squad of troopers charged in the shocked and wounded mob, sporting the instantly traditional silver pauldrons that Chere has taken as the legion's new trademark. Their carbines and rifles fired as one weapon in a massive cascade of energy, slashing through the pirate's disorganized ranks.

"Third Company, Move out!" Chere bellowed. "Second, take that T-junction to the right and see if you can bottleneck the scum."

The squad moved aside for their comrades. A wave of white plastoid surged through the darkened hall, trampling the fallen pirates. A lone Bothan limped toward Chere, his arms raised in surrender. The colonel simply pointed. A green-clad Sergeant and a regular trooper moved in to take custody. Chere would have gladly shot the furry punk, but he had very specific orders on surrendering opponents.

"Be grateful we're not Imps any more," the trooper admonished the pirate.

"Those of us that were in the first place," Raines added under his breath.

Chere gestured to his deputy dulling the relative lull. "You go ahead and take First and Third up to the generator chamber. I'm taking Fourth up to see what those bloody ARCs are up to." The clone Commander nodded. He voiced orders through his helmet-link, gathered up his rifle, and marched up, two red-clad Captains moving in his wake. They moved in perfect tandem; big surprise, they _were_ clones.

Leo quickly made a link-order of his own. "Flick, get your butt up here to keep an eye on the Second."

"Acknowledged, Colonel!" the reply snapped back. Leo smiled in his helmet. The big grump of a stormtrooper had developed quite an ego among the New Rep troops, but two weeks with the Randomizer and another four with clones had made him 'a perfect soldier' again. The Colonel had already made him a Captain and was planning to raise him further after this shake-out battle was over. A few companies did not a Legion make.

Back to the reforging. He charged in with an enthusiasm he had forgotten.

His personal squad moved in behind him. They moved quickly and furtively through the smoke-filled hall chambers. After a few hundred yards, they had to activate personal light-sources.

The Fourth's commander, Captain Vikks, moved to his colonel's side. A former ARC himself, he had quickly acknowledged that their silence was unusual at best. He flicked his antenna up—he had kept his old armor, a superior product to even the modern trooper gear. "Sir, they should have taken the enemy leader by now. One ARC could have done the job," he stated flatly. "That sort of mission is what we were created for."

Chere nodded, the effect looking decidedly dangerous in the blank, malicious-looking stormtrooper gear. He looked over the ensuing combat. Energy lanced in a hundred directions. Grenades and other explosives ripped through trooper and pirate alike, making the walls and floor into a hellish mural of gore.

"I know," the new colonel stated.

"I was created for war, too."

Leo and the Fourth quickly moved through the darkened halls into what the maps claimed was the command center, fighting like hellions the whole way. The pirates did what they could, swarming into the company's way, but packs of blaster bravoes were no match for disciplined soldiers, even ones fresh from stasis like the Forty-Second. The pirates charged, yelling and gobbling curses in a myriad of languages—and broke, screaming in those same languages.

The colonel finally saw a splash of white in the morass of battle ahead. "Vikks, see if you can clear out some around that point over there," he ordered, gesturing. Five troopers quickly moved into position and began systematically firing, while the rest of their squad moved in to cover.

The swarming fringers quickly vacated the small area around Leo's discovery—an ARC trooper, propped up against the metal wall. Half of his torso armor was gone, and what was left was blackened and scorched. The dead soldier still clutched his rifle, however; only yielding his life in the end. The colonel nodded solemnly in tribute.

The quiet half-lull was broken. "Those bastards took out an ARC! Get 'em!" Chere screamed, managing to overload his speaker for a second.

New to this war, or not, the Forty-Second was in business.


	3. Chapter 3

Colonel Leo Chere was at his favorite place, doing his least favorite activity. The Forty-Second had come to their new home, an old Rebel Base on the temperate planet of Cashel. It was a cobbling of old military temporary buildings, some permanent bunkers, and even some larger military vehicles, stripped of various parts for salvage and turned into stationary structures. Leo Chere had taken up shop in an old, legless AT-AT walker, turning the cramped cockpit into his cramped office—with a view.

He was busily updating his roster, placing the dead on a list of their own, and entering a new influx of troopers into various slots. When the word spread that a new Legion had been put together, albeit by the New Republic, all sorts of clones, ex-stormtroopers and even just ambitious soldiers and commandos had come out of the galactic woodwork. The latest was a platoon of scout troopers—complete with their signature speeder bikes—that had gone mercenary, then had heard the Randomizer had gotten a command again at last. Leo was grateful; he now had the fast-hitting mounted infantry he needed for the lightning raids and long patrols and was part and parcel of the recon unit he was still assembling.

The office was rather spartan, but their were a few mementos on the bulkheads: an old, eggshell white Rebel Trooper's helmet next to a pair of vibro-shivs on a shelf on one side, an equally white stormtrooper helmet on the opposite wall. Above the rather spacious viewport was a small, bolted in shelf where a rangefinder had been ripped out. Upon that shelf was a rather humble-looking object: a half-melted power pack for a standard issue E-11 stormtrooper rifle. It had been placed so conspicuously so as anyone who came in would look at the power pack that had saved a desperate soldier and won a planet. Chere would never forget _that_ battle.

Back to work. Chere wrestled with the datapad, quietly thinking happy thoughts about dead supply officers; they had seriously skimped on a lot of shipments, and now his own quartermaster and clerks were scrambling and scrounging like mad to get the weapons and gear the Forty-Second would need to function. Their cause was just, but it wouldn't get them anywhere if they get called up and ended up throwing rocks at the enemy. He was running a unit of soldiers, not a tribe of Ewoks. The proof of that was sitting in a corner.

A silver-grey banner, bearing the wing-like symbol of the New Republic. At both the upper left and lower right corners, blue diagonal stripes connected the sides, containing the digits _4_ and _2—_the unit's new color. Most Legions and old Regiments did not have an individual battle banner, but Leo was something of a firebrand, and the troops loved the idea of a flag to fight for. Soldiers were still soldiers, even among the stars.

A comm set into the colonel's desk buzzed, then clicked on. "Commander Raines in here to see you, sir," Leo's secretary announced, the trooper's voice giving a tinny quality by the system. "He has the list you asked for."

Leo punched a button on the comm. "Thanks, Criaal. Tell Captains Flick and Tym that I need have them in the conference room by twelve-hundred. Send the ex in here."

There was a dull knock on the hatch—the retrofit hadn't included a buzzer. "Come!" Chere barked.

Raines marched through the hatchway, closing it and saluting smartly. Leo rose to attention and returned the gesture. Salutes were as old-fashioned as the new flag, but the colonel knew their value. One the NR needed to learn. Badly.

Both officers sat, Leo in the old desk chair he had scrounged, the exec in an old battered jump seat that been fitted with legs. Raines spoke first.

"I've got the new list of recruits you needed, sir. We've got a company of snow troopers now, and some humorous soul decided to send us a group of regular Republic troops. They'll both arrive together in about twenty hours, but the detachment CO is not listed for some reason." The clone shifted uneasily in his new uniform. It had taken some screaming, but Leo had managed to get into the officer's skulls that they needed to look like New Rep soldiers if they wanted to keep fighting as a group.

Chere nodded gravely. "They probably went and gave us one of those spooky malcontents from Intel. It takes a mind-sifter to get one of them to admit they breathe; buildings talk more than that kind. I had to deal with them all the time before Command tossed me here; wahoo. Meanwhile, we have some promotions and decorations to hand out later. Those ARC's we got really did the trick on those pirates. I'm still ready to shoot your big brothers' Captain, though. If they don't signal when they need help again, I'll re-name the lot of 'em _Regressed_ Recon Commandos."

Raines chuckled dryly. "They have a lot of ego to burn, sir. And getting tossed in stasis did not improve them a single bit." The clone gave his gene-brothers due respect, but they were little too wild for his taste.

The ARC's had taken their objective rather easily; five would had been overkill, but Leo and the NR wanted to know what a large group would be able to handle, and sent in twenty. They had managed to smash into the command center, with only two lost, but the pirates' leader had raised the alarm and hundreds of the scum had converged on their position. They had waited it out with their prisoner for reinforcements. Their officer, Tym, had stubbornly refused to signal for help, however; the only reason he had kept his rank and station, much less his life was the fact that he had been doing tests of his own—of their new commander. Leo had passed.

ARC's are strange.

The two troopers jumped. A loud _whump! _had sounded from the viewport. Leo and Raines both had blaster pistols out and trained on the source: a small winged creature idiotically trying to punch its way through the 'invisible' barrier. It left the strange metal place with an indignant squawk—and a healthy bruise.

The soldiers chuckled. Cashel was full of all types of critters, and defenses designed to repel a small mobilized army couldn't keep up with local wildlife all the time. Soldiers and speeders were easier to hit.

Leo thought for a moment, looking blankly at a point on the hatch. "Hey, that gives me an idea...Commander, have you ever hunted game other than droids and pirates?"

The clone started and gave the colonel an confused look. "What do you mean? I've killed a few animals for survival training, but not for sport."

Chere sprouted a evil grin. "You clones really missed out, no wonder 'old Palpy' got his chrono cleaned. Here's my idea: We send the companies to different sectors, we leave them there with their combat gear, and then have them all move toward a central point somewhere, bagging all the meat they can along the way. Then we have a major hunter's feast, with some kind of reward going to the company that bags the most. There's not much in the way of poisonous animals and such in the area, so all we need to do is make sure we have good ID's and be smart cooks. It's about time you lot tried something other than that cubed crap anyway."

Raines shrugged. "If nothing else, it should be interesting. Even us clones get sick of 'go there, kill this, leave.' "

The two officers discussed minor administrative things until twelve-hundred came along. They both rose and saluted, then Raines left for the 'conference room,' a partitioned-off room in the rear of the junked walker. Leo collected a few datapads—still thinking happy thoughts about dying supply pukes—and followed.

Leo marched smartly past Criaal's station, through the half-wrecked tunneling of the walker, and to the conference room. Captains Tym and Flick were already there, along with a few more officers.

Everyone rose and saluted. The colonel returned the salute sharply. He cleared his throat and re-sprouted the bloodthirsty grin. "Boys, let's go huntin'!"

Most of the officers gave him blank stares. Tym sprouted an equally vicious smile, while Flick merely raised his bushy brows. Quinn, the unit quartermaster, smiled. "That ought to help with the upcoming ration problem."


	4. Chapter 4

The hunt had gone well. Colonel Chere hadn't bagged anything himself, but he frankly admitted to his officers that charging around the woods in an old BARC speeder Quartermaster Quinn had scrounged was plenty fun.

Not too surprisingly, the scout troopers and the ARCs had managed to do the best. They had brought down several some sort of bear-like mammal that the base personnel had dubbed yogi for some obscure reason. While even Leo, who had been in all sorts of fancy eateries over the years, knew it wasn't the best meat ever, the very fact that Forty-Second troops had done all the work made it uniquely enjoyable. Raines had commented that it beat 'those damned glop-packs' hands-down. The colonel agreed. He hated jellied Jawa or whatever space rations were in real life.

Troopers, clad in their armor _sans_ helmet, lounged, stood, or sat around the 'base camp,' munching on various outdoors dishes and swilling Quinn's special surprise, a major amount of lum he had somehow squeezed from the New Republic's underground network of supply officers. It had been a while since Leo had seen clones get drunk; some the ARC's had engaged in a contest with some of the more reckless ex-stormies. It had already went from friendly rivalry to an epic duel of suds and song.

On the ARC's had dropped out early, his scarred countenance crinkled in sozzled mirth. He stood there, his armor moving in quake-like motions with his laughter. "Ha, we're ARCs. HahahahahaARCARCARCARCARC! Aaaaaaarrrrcccccks!" A slightly less tipsy Dyne was laughing along, his own carapace bobbing.

The colonel simply watched and laughed. He didn't drink himself; less teetotalism than a perfect knowledge of his conduct under the influence. He wouldn't forget _that_ tapcaf. Besides, he was enjoying his own surprise: the ARC's had given him a set of their unique armor, pauldron and kama included. It had to be a custom job; the gear fit perfectly, and Chere knew very well that he wasn't the same dimensions as a Jango clone. Why the ARC's, with their independent streak and quiet sense of elitism, had given him the suit was beyond him.

Raines looked at the colonel with a cynical grin. "Having fun with you new toys, sir?" he asked. Leo opened his mouth, a wisecrack ready to go--

"SIR! There's a ORD-ACT coming in from the base. It's labeled Null!" the lone comm specialist boomed. He wasn't drinking, either; he had volunteered to keep a channel open to the base in case of emergency. The colonel immediately slapped his wristcomm in the sudden silence.

"This is Forty-Two-Oh-One. Go ahead."

"Colonel, we've just received orders for your immediate deployment. It's labeled Priority Null. Get your stormies together. Out."

"Understood, Commodore!" Leo slapped his comm again. "YARRGH! Dry out, suit up, and form up! STAT!"

The Forty-Second dropped their revelry and scrambled into action. Sober-up pills fell in mouths and helmets were collected as the troopers moved into a scratch formation. Priority Null was something no soldier ever wanted to hear.

It meant at or near-disaster so great that anybody that couldn't immediately deploy at the trouble spot may as well stay put. And that anybody that could get there had better be ready for soldier's worst nightmare:

That even victory could mean failure.

x x x

He lounged in his seat in front of the tactical screen. He had planned well.

Even before now, he had been a great planner. He had taken a collection of misfit troopers and forged them into the equal of any Legion ever made for the Empire. Of course, he had needed help; that was part of good planning, allowing for help. Lord Vader himself had taken his list of candidates and had taken time from his studies and errands for the Emperor—at the behest of Palpatine himself!--to test and collect the needed few.

The needed few...Mikel, Nisa, Fane, Relm, Chere, a dozen others. A collection of warriors fit to lead armies for their Emperor.

But plans and help only went so far. The fruit of his plan had come far too late; a year earlier and his Legion could have given glory and honor to be heard forevermore.

Major Mikel, killed by Rebel butchers at Reyal. Commander Nisa, lost to a rogue Jedi at Peraline. Colonel Fane, tortured into insanity by the same Jedi. The seated man had killed the poor Fane himself, a soldier's last mercy. Commander Relm, missing and now presumed dead during the firestorm that had claimed the Legion. Commander Chere...

_General _Chere! The seated man's fists balled. He had placed the false warrior on his list for his talent to be more real than authentic articles. Chere had proven himself so well that he had plowed through the ranks from a mere captain to the seated man's executive officer, his greatest student, his heir apparent, his best friend...

to a black traitor. When the Emperor had decided that the seated man had outlived his usefulness, he had ordered himself and then-Commander Chere to his court. The Sith Lord had ordered the trooper officers to shoot themselves. He did not. Chere did; that was loyalty. But the blaster had been deactivated. Their lord had been testing them. He dismissed and cashiered the seated man and put Chere in his place as General of the Forty-Second Imperial Legion. _His_ Legion!

Even then, Leo tried to outmaneuver the New Order. He had located the seated man and offered to give him an false identity as his aide. Offered to make himself a figurehead and mouthpiece for the seated man's orders. The seated man was still shocked at his protege's audacity. Leo was where he belonged; why would he throw it away for misguided loyalty to one man! The seated man was so shocked by the twisted generosity, bordering on treason, that he eventually engineered Chere's downfall. But there was the seated man's ironic crime. The subtle pushing of both Rebel and Imperial military might had resulted in the destruction of his beloved Forty-Second. Even more, Chere himself had survived, captured by the Rebels. The seated man did not put it past Chere to have arranged his own capture.

The Rebel's somehow twisted Chere into their way of thinking. It had not taken much. Chere was a rare man of conscience, who had quietly questioned the necessity of some the Legion's missions, even as he had carried them out. He had exchanged his loyalty for...

For what? The Rebels made him a mere captain again, putting the traitor in charge of a handful of other traitors.


End file.
